


Laundry Day is Risky Business

by USSFriendship



Series: WinterHawk Mandatory Fun Day [6]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Classic Rock, Domestic Fluff, Getting Together, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Idiots in Love, Laundry day, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18629122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/USSFriendship/pseuds/USSFriendship
Summary: Only Clint could make a mess of his clothes while doing laundry. Bucky loves him for it.





	Laundry Day is Risky Business

**Author's Note:**

> [Mandatory Fun Day](https://mandatoryfunday.tumblr.com/) 26 April 2019 Prompt: [Laundry Day](https://mandatoryfunday.tumblr.com/post/184365908424/shreddedgifs-laundry-day-its-laundry-day-this)
> 
> [Clint Barton Bingo](https://clintbartonbingo.tumblr.com/): C4 - Dancing  
> [Bucky Barnes Bingo](https://buckybarnesbingo.tumblr.com/): B5 - Domesticity  
> 

Fuck. Bucky loved him. Thoroughly, unequivocally, and without question, Bucky was completely fucking in love with the disaster human he was spying on from just outside the door to the laundry room. In his defense, how could you  _ not _ fall in love with Clint Barton?

**=|=|=|=|=**

It started, like everything else between them, as just a physical thing. Really just an extension of the wrestling that had grown out of the sparring that had originally been the two of them training each other on some of their more unique fighting moves. It shouldn’t really have even happened, but, to be fair, how in the hell else was a post-wrestling shower in the gym ever going  to end, if not in life altering blow jobs? But Bucky had a feeling he was in love with Clint before they ever got to the fighting. It was probably definitely a result of all the time spent on the range, trying to best each other in increasingly complicated contests or ridiculous shooting positions. 

Though, if he were to chase that back a little further, he probably started falling in love with Clint Barton shortly after he moved into the tower and walked in on Clint flicking popped corn at a sleeping Steve. This was long before Bucky started going on missions with the team, and he didn’t have much of a handle on team dynamics. He knew nothing about the mission, just that Steve, Clint, Tony, and Natasha were gone for a little over three days, and were completely dark the whole time. Even Tony, which Bruce explained was very rare, but not actually indicative of anything - good or bad - as it was just as likely to be mission required it as him hiding from something Pepper wanted him to do. Bucky hadn’t even known they were back until Tony and Natasha stumbled into common room where he was sitting on the sofa watching cooking shows in a pair of lounge pants and t-shirt he’d spilled coffee on that morning - hey, no one was home - and right over to the bar. 

“Cool your jets, Elsa,” Tony offered, and started pouring himself some amber liquid from a crystal decanter,  “nothing bad happened, just lots and lots of stupid. And wasted time. Everyone’s fine, the only thing injured is our pride.”

Natasha just took a gargantuan swig straight out of a frosty vodka bottle she’d acquired from somewhere. “I would swear that was just a diversion to get us out of the way for some sort of attack,” she paused for another massive gulp from the bottle, “except there was no attack.. Anywhere in the world. It was Doom playing a very expensive game of cat-and-mouse, because he was bored.’

Tony coughed out a laugh at that, choking on the last of his drink prompting him to  start pouring himself another. “If that is what he wants, I say we just grab him,” Tony downs half of his drink and continues, “we’ll put a bell around his neck and catnip in his pockets, and hand him to T’Challa.”

Bucky snorts a laugh at that, but looks at the door waiting to see Steve walk through.

“He’s still on the quinjet, I think. With Clint,” Natasha says, picking up on his growing worry.

It made sense, but he was still sort of on edge about it as he headed toward the hangar. He walked onto the quninjet and the first thing he saw was Clint sprawled across the front seats, facing the door, and holding a bag of microwave popcorn. The archer shoved the couple of kernels he was holding into his mouth and started to sign something, but Bucky wasn’t yet fluent in ASL, and he was too distracted with concern for Steve to be able to pay enough attention to catch more than the sign for “sleep.” 

Turns out, he really didn’t need to be concerned. Like, really did not, at all, need to be concerned.

Steve, still in his uniform minus the cowl, was dead asleep slumped across one of the seats, his head was resting against the bolser in such a way that even super serum wasn’t going to be able to prevent him waking up with a stiff neck. He was even snoring a little, and it was truly adorable. It was really only sullied by the pile of popcorn that was growing on the slope of his neck. 

He just at Steve’s sleeping form for a couple of beats, thinking about how light a sleeper he usually was, and what a sign of trust it was for him to sleep at all, let alone so deeply, around the Clint. Clint snapped him back to the present with a kernel of popcorn between eyes.

Clint signed something, but Bucky couldn’t really follow, so Clint raised a finger to his lips to keep him quiet and finger spelled N-E-E-D-S-L-E-E-P before pointing at Steve.

Ok, that was fair, but Bucky was still at a loss as to what to do, so he reached over and gingerly plucked a couple pieces off the slow-growing popcorn mountain on Steve’s neck. He held them between his thumb and forefinger pointedly, and quirked an eyebrow at Clint. 

/B-O-R-E-D/ Clint punctuated that with a one-shouldered shrug.

Fair enough, really. If the others were any indication, Clint had to be exhausted and Bucky couldn’t really fault him for finding a pretty harmless way to keep himself awake and occupied, so he just smirked and tossed the popcorn he was holding into his mouth.

So, apparently, Bucky had forgotten that he absolutely fucking  _ hates _ popcorn. The flavor, the texture, the gross oily film it leaves in his mouth, it is all fucking bad and it came back to him in a big bad way as he started chewing sarcastically at Clint. He pulled a face, which caused him choke a little bit, and in no time his spluttering cough startled Steve awake. Given that he woken up in uniform while still on the quinjet, he came to in Full Cap Mode.

“What’s wrong? Who’s hurt?” Steve barked out, before looking around and seeing Clint - clearly exhausted, but obviously unhurt - staring at Bucky, the blatantly forced look of irritation on his face was poorly hiding the fact that he was trying very hard not to laugh at something. A quick swivel of his head had him at Bucky, who was standing there red-faced, though it was clearly more out of embarrassment than anything else. That was about the time that he registered the fact that there was popcorn trying to work its way down the neck of his uniform.

People talk about the “Captain America is Disappointed in You” face, but what people don’t know is that the face has nothing to do with Cap; that face is entirely Steve Rogers, and it is far more devastating in real life than could ever be conveyed in some PSA or USO show. It is just so fucking earnest, and, right now, Clint kind hates him for it.

“Nothin’s wrong, no one’s hurt,” Bucky answers, sounding entirely over it, even thought it just started - whatever it was. “Popcorn sucks, and ‘m judgin’ Barton ‘bout it.”

“Hey!” Came Clint’s indignant reply. “Popcorn is delightful. Put away the grumpy muppet face,” he mumbled before shoving another handful of popcorn in his face. “Cap, Sargeant Killjoy is right, nothing is wrong and everyone is fine. You fell asleep on the ride back to the tower, and you needed the sleep. I stuck around so you wouldn’t wake up on an empty quinjet and freak out.” He munched thoughtfully for a beat before adding, “so you could wake up on a crowded quinjet and freak out. Thanks, Barnes.”

Steve looks at Clint and considers his story. “Makes sense, Hawkeye. I’d thank you, but my neck is oily and I smell like a movie theater,” he swivels his head to glare at Bucky, his expression now carefully neutral. “Why, uh, are you here, Buck? Is everything ok?”

“Everything ‘s fine, Punk,” he drawls with a touch of exasperation to his voice, “just saw the others but not you. Natal- Natasha told me where you were.” He really hopes, but as the silence grows, he can tell it isn’t working for Steve. At all. “I just needed to check, see for myself.” There, that better be enough for Steve, because saying anymore would cost him too much. ‘

“What, Barnes? No concern for me?” Clint pipes in, hand on his chest in a melodramatically wounded sort of gesture. “Oh, I see,” he adds, face falling dramatically. 

Bucky knows it is a joke, that Clint is trying to lighten the mood, but he really hates the idea of making anyone look the way Clint looks, even as a joke. And, especially Clint. Well, fine. If that’s how Barton wants to play it, that’s how it’ll go. He can’t get too mad when he was the one to start it, right? 

“Clint - Hawkeye?” Voice heavy with concern, he widens his eyes and looks at Clint, and he’s going for worry, but will settle for not looking creepy. Well, creepier. “Are you ok?” In a couple of steps he is standing right infront of Clint, eyeing him carefully. “Were you hurt?” Bucky never intended to take it this far, honestly, but before he can really think about what he is doing,  he is carefully running his hand over Barton’s bicep, as if he were actually looking for injuries. Holy fuck. There were no injuries to be found, just what felt like miles of warm, solid archer. He sucks in a deep breath, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he should be embarrassed, but,  _ fuck that _ . The muscle that made up Clint Barton was hard won and deserved to be admired. 

Hell. All that muscle deserved to be worshipped, but that was probably going a little too far. 

“Like what you see, Barnes?” Bucky isn’t looking at Clint’s face, but he can hear the smirk in the man’s words. 

All the air leaves his lungs in a rush, and fuck, how long had he been holding that breath? Whatever. Fortune favors the bold, right?

“Yeah, Barton. Who wouldn’t? Have you seen you?”

Steve snorts out a laugh from off to the side. “Well, look like some things are comin’ back to ya, ‘ey Buck?”

“Fuck you, Stevie,” is Bucky’s oddly cheerful reply.

“Aw, Cap. No,” Clint whines. “This is the most action I’ve gotten in,” he pauses and pretends to count on his fingers, “longer than I can count. Don’t ruin this for me, Captain Cockblock.”

Steve’s face goes through an odd series of contortions before settling on amused, and he snorts a laugh. “You know what, Barton? Good luck.” He turns to Bucky, “have fun, don’t break him,” he adds, with a  slap on the shoulder. “If you’re joking, you’ve both got me. If you’re not, please spare me the details. I’m going to go molest an engineer until I pass out.”

He leaves the two of them standing there, looking more than a little dumbfounded. Neither is sure if Steve is joking, and they are both too afraid to ask, so they let the big man walk away. 

“Barton, you look like a corpse and you’re swaying like sapling in a breeze. ‘S much fun as this has been, you need to sleep before you keel over.” Bucky is pretty proud of his ability to keep his voice steady. Probably, because it wasn’t a lie; as much as he enjoyed the archer’s attitude and fucking spectacular arms, and would genuinely enjoy the opportunity to spend more time relearning how to flirt by practicing on the man before him - to say nothing of spending some quality time together getting acquainted with his libido - but now is definitely not that time. “Let’s go. I’ll walk you to your room, and you can get some sleep.”

“Aw, Barnes,” Clint pulls out his best good ol’ boy drawl, but with Steve gone, and therefore his obligation to stay away, his words are so sleep-slurred the effect is mostly lost, “you sayin’ you wanna sleep with me?”

Bucky snorts. “Barton, if I ever want to say that, there will be no question about it.” He moves to stand next to Clint, putting and hand to the small of his back and applying gentle, leading pressure. “I just don’t want your dumbass to fall asleep in the elevator. I’m afraid JARVIS’s protocols would shut it down, and that would be terrible. You know how Hulk feels about having to take the stairs.”

Clint just hummed in response and let himself be lead all the way to his door. When they finally made it, Clint failed to thumb open the lock. Apparently, the trip from the hangar had left him so tired he was unable to keep his thumb still long enough to get a proper read, which Bucky found a little odd. He looked quizzically up at the ceiling, like he was expecting JARVIS to answer as to why he didn’t just open the door for Clint. Maybe JARVIS saw Bucky as a threat? Before he had a chance to follow that thought anywhere, the sleepy man in question stumbled backwards and right into Bucky’s chest. 

“Whoa, there, Barton,” he said softly, placing a hand on Clint’s side to help steady him. “C’mon, just a little farther. Don’t make me carry you.” Without thinking about it, he grabbed Clint’s left hand in his own and moved it towards the scanner.

“Mmm,” he started with a grumble, leaning his head back and rolling it sideways on Bucky’s shoulder so he could look at him, “being carried by Bucky Barnes. Oh nose. What a hardship.”

No sooner had he finished talking than the lock released and the door opened slightly with a soft click. Taking the cue, Bucky moved his hand back to the small of Clint’s back and shoved softly, “Maybe some other time. For now, you need sleep. We’ll figure something out later.”

“MmmHm, yup, right,” the blonde murmured, right before taking a stumbling step. He’d have been sprawled on the floor were it not for Bucky’s enhanced reflexes sending his arms out to wrap around Clint’s chest and haul him back up. “Mm, maybe need a little more help,” he said sheepishly. “Swear wasn’t th’s t’r’d on th’ jet.”

There was no way Bucky was going to leave Clint to fall down and sleep on the floor for who knows how long, so he shifted Clint so he was tucked against his side, Bucky’s arms under his armpits. He looked meaningfully up at the ceiling, thinking back to his worry that JARVIS perceived him as a threat, and hoped that he was conveying that this was just him being helpful and not, well, a threat. 

They made it to Clint’s bedroom in short order, and Clint flopped face first onto the bed as soon as he was in range, leaving Bucky standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed

“Uh, Barton, you might want to take off the uniform. Sleeping in a tac vest cannot be comfortable.”

Clint mumbled something into the mattress and twitched a little bit. 

Well, fuck. Bucky couldn’t leave him like this; his legs were dangling off the edge of the bed, which would leave him sore when he woke up, and sleeping in a tac suit sucks and will also likely leave him sore.

“Fuck, Barton, you’re a wreck,” he murmured softly to himself as he knelt down to take off Clint’s boots. He’d gotten the first one untied and nearly off when Clint jerked, almost kicking him in the face. “Calm down, ‘m just takin’ your boots off. Not tryin’ to take advantage or anything,” he explained, keeping his eyes on his task so he could finish and get the hell out of this ridiculous situation.

“Y’ could if y’ wanted to.”

The words were more clear than Clint had managed since before Steve woke up, and Bucky jerked his head up with a start to see Clint looking at up, twisted over on his side and propped up on an arm. 

“Fuck, Barton,” he huffed out, truly startled, which was a feat in and of itself. THen the words registered, and he heaved a great sigh and closed his eyes, almost a prayer for patience. “Never, Clint. I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not ever. It’s not-” he hesitates, squeezing his eyes shut, “it’s not funny. Not that.”

“No, it’s not. ‘M sorry,” Bucky opened his eyes and looked up at the source of the soft voice. Clint looked thoroughly cowed, “I know. Bad joke.”

Now Bucky felt like hell. He never meant to drag anyone into his shit, especially not Clint, who had his own helping of shit to shovel through. He needed to fix it, which was a strange thought. “‘Sides, again, ‘f ‘m tryin’ t’ get ya naked, you’ll know.” He tacked a wink on for good measure as he yanked Clint’s boot off and moved to the other one.

“Thanks for the help, but I got it.” It was a token protest, but Clint looked as awkward as Bucky felt. He fully rolled over and sat up a little more, moving to start unbuckling and unzipping his vest. “But, uh, walking sounds terrible. If you could grab my jams off the counter in the bathroom, I’d appreciate it.”

Bucky puzzled at what the hell “jams” could be, but headed into the bathroom without asking for clarification. He figured he know whatever they were when he saw them, and he was mostly right. Wadded up on the counter was a wad of bright purple sweatpants, and Bucky figured that they must be pajamas, and of fucking course Clint Barton had a ridiculous name for his bed clothes. Scooping up the pants and the soft grey shirt balled up underneath, he walked back into the bedroom, and almost immediately fell over. 

Stretched out on the bed in only a pair of black boxer shorts was Clint and miles of taught, pale skin nearly glowing in the light from the bathroom. Bucky’s libido unhelpfully reminded him that it existed, but he did his best to ignore it as he walked over the bed. He held out the clothes while unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth he tentatively asked “these?”

With a smile that could have powered the goddamn sun, Clint gave him a frantic nod and reached out to take the clothes, hand lingering what felt like a lot longer than was necessary, but it sent an odd thrill through him. Realistically, it was just that Clint was moving slowly because he was tired. That was all. 

He didn’t have too much time to think about it, because all too soon Clint had flopped over on the bed and was wriggling himself into his clothes, moving as little as possible to inch the sweats up his thighs, and probably expending more energy than if he’d gotten up and done it the normal way. It was really hard to care about it, though, because all the movement caused the muscle under that gorgeous skin to shift and, fuck. Bucky was fucked. So very, very fucked. 

“So,” he cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the scratchy quality his voice had taken on, “uh, I guess this is where I leave you, then. Good night, Barton.” He turned on his heel and made as quick an exist as he could. When he was just a few steps from the door, he looked up at the ceiling and whispered, “please turn the lights off when I leave, JARVIS.”

As soon as he was out of the apartment, he leaned against the wall and stared down at his hands. He’d had more physical contact with Clint more in the last half hour than he had with everyone he’d touched since coming in from the cold, and the enormity of that was hitting him all at once. Just before those thoughts turned into a full blown panic attack, a soft bonging noise brought him back to himself. It was the sound he and JARVIS had worked out for the AI to use to get his attention, which came about after the first time JARVIS talked to him when he was alone and scared him so badly he panicked for two days. JARVIS could be so thoughtful, which surprised Bucky, considering he was just a voice, and one created by Tony Stark at that. Some secret part of him hoped that it was just because JARVIS liked him, which occasionally struck him as sad; computers couldn’t like people so only a crazy person would want them to, but most days it felt like the AI was his closest friend. It was that thought that caused him to tense up, genuinely afraid JARVIS was going to scold him for being creepy and undressing Clint.

“James, Agent Barton is asking after you. What would you like me to tell him?”

On no planet did that make any sense to Bucky, especially not when he was braced to be yelled at. He turned a quizzical glance toward the ceiling, “what’s he asking, J? Is everything ok?’

“Agent Barton appears to be fine, he is just asking if you are available.” There was no judgement or anger or confusion in the voice, which of course there wasn’t, but there did seem to be something JARVIS wasn’t saying. After several beats he continued, “it is purely speculation, James, but I think Agent Barton is thinking about asking you to return to his room. If I may be so bold, I think you should. Shall I let him know you are outside the door and on your way?”

Bucky blinked. What the fuck. Sure. “Uh, yeah. Yes,” and he opened the door he’d just closed a minute ago. “Barton?” He was shouting in a whisper, and felt ridiculous, but the apartment was dark and he had no idea what to do or what was going on. “Clint? What’s up? You ok?”

“‘M fine, Buck, just, can you come in here so I’m not shouting into a black apartment?” Clint called from his room. “Oh, hey, uh, thank you for coming back?” 

It was a question, and something in Bucky’s chest tightened at that, but he wasn’t sure what or why and this whole thing was nuts and just fuck. 

“Uh,” Clint started again, hesitantly, “look, feel free to say no. By all means! Say no! It’s fine, I get it!”

“Say no to what, Clint?” Great, now in addition to being awkward, Bucky was confused and starting to worry.

“No, jokes, Buck, but, uh,” a comically loud gulping sound came from the direction of the bed. “J, man, could you up the lights to 20%? Thanks. Uh, Buck. The mission was a shit show. I, uh, nothing happened, and that’s worse? Y’know? Now ‘m just waiting for something to happen, ‘cause that’s what my brain is used to? Mission. Stress. Action. Then home and sleep. But. missed a step. And, uh. Fuck.”

“Clint, I’m sorry, but I’ve got no idea what’s going on here. What can I do?”

“Will you stay?” The reply is blurted, almost like it escaped. “Please? Feel better with you, uh, here. Uh. Actually asking this time.”

“Well, um, sure.” There is abso-fucking-lutely no way that Bucky is leaving now, but he doesn’t need to let Clint know. “Just, um, in the living room? Or do you need me to be in the bedroom?”

Clint huffed a laugh in reply, but when Bucky didn’t reply, he clarified, “In the bed, Buck. I. Fuck. Just, get in the bed so I can turn the lights off and hide while I say this?”

Clint’s words did nothing to calm him down. They were both exactly what he wanted to hear, and completely terrifying, but as conflicted as he was, there was nothing in the world that could make him deny the request, so he shuffled over to the left side of bed, the side farthest from where Clint was laying, and kicked off his slippers before gingerly laying himself as close to the edge as he could get.

“Well, you followed my request to the letter,” the archer laughed out. “I will be more specific next time. For now, uh, you can get under the covers? If you want? And, uh, J? Lights out, please? Uh, blackout? Thank you.” He takes a deep breath before he shifts in the bed and reaches an arm out towards Bucky, and groped around for a bit, like he was looking for something. “Barnes, your hand,” he finally says in a voice that is frustrated but more than a little amused.

Though he is under the covers now, and isn’t laying at the exact edge of the bed, Bucky is still on the left side of the bed, which means his “Clint, it’s the wrong side. I don’t-”

“Oh, stop.” Clint cuts him off, “I didn’t invite 85% of you to lay in bed with me. What the fuck, Barnes? I don’t care. Just hold my fucking hand so I can be all vulnerable and shit before I pass out.” He huffs out another soft laugh when he feels Bucky’s hand next to his. “There, was that so hard? Really, Buck, you’re not the most fucked up person in this bed. Wait, no, ignore that, that’s an argument for future Clint and Bucky to have. I’m just saying, I don’t care about the metal arm. Well, I do, but not like that. I’m not afraid of it. I’m not afraid of you.” He laughs again. “Ok, no, I’m terrified of you, but not like that. I just chased a wild goose around the planet for a buncha days, and now I’m afraid of sleep, and my brain has decided you are the thing that will make it not afraid, and that’s scary as fuck, right? That some part of me looked at another person and said ‘Them! That one! They’ll make it better!’ and, fuck, Bucky, you did. You do. You also flirt and get me thinkin’ about you taking my pants off in a very different situation and that’s got me pondering all sorts of things and-” he heaves a sigh. “I like you. You make me feel safe. You touch me, and it feels better. I get that it’s weird, and we can get out of bed tomorrow and move on, and never do this again or whatever, but I’m so tired, Buck, and I’m just going to wake up to blue and cold and screaming myself hoarse if you aren’t here, and maybe even if you are, because my subconscious is a real motherfucker, yeah? But I don’t think so, so. If it is ok with you, will you stay here tonight and hold my hand and help me chase away the nightmares?”

Somewhere in the middle of Clint’s monologue a large boulder had lodged itself in Bucky’s throat, but the room was pitch black and Clint couldn’t see him nod, so, with every bit of his considerable strength, he forced out a “yes” and hoped it didn’t sound too broken. 

“Ok,” the relief in Clint’s voice was so think you could wrap yourself in it, like a blanket. “Ok, thank you. We can hash whatever out in the morning, but I’m going to take my ears out and knock out for a while.” 

His hand felt empty and cold when Clint moved to take out his hearing aides, but it was only a few seconds before Clint’s warm had was back, and warm calloused fingers were tangling with his cool metal ones. It wasn’t actually night, and Bucky wasn’t actually tired, so he laid there for several hours, not moving, just thinking. The day had started like any other, and he was just doing a thing, but somewhere between his dropping on the couch in the living room this morning, and this moment right here laying next to Clint, everything changed. He knew he liked the guy, that they got on well and jokes were easy between them, but he hadn’t thought about it at all. About what it meant or what it could be or what Clint thought of it. Now, though, it was all he could think about, and it was good, and he wanted to make it last for as long as possible, and he spent the rest of the night working on how to do that. 

**=|=|=|=|=**

A handful of years after that first awkward night, and the two of them lived in a dodgy little apartment in Brooklyn, in a building Bucky was shocked to learn that Clint owned. As soon as Clint told him the story, though, it made perfect sense, and Bucky became friends with the odd assortment of characters that Clint had curated as tenants. It was odd, really, and reminded Bucky a lot of his Brooklyn, from back before everything, with how close-knit and in each other’s shit the tenants were, but he really kinda loved it. He also loved the extremely happy one-eyed lab and incredibly grumpy flat-faced cat they’d adopted at some point. He really loved the ridiculous domesticity that they could scrape out between missions and emergencies, but, mostly, he loved Clint. 

He especially loved Clint right now, at his most Clint Barton: dancing around the laundry room to classic rock jams wearing only a pair of tiny black briefs. Bucky had no idea why Clint had stripped down in the laundry room, though there was a certainly a reason that made perfect sense to his goofball archer, and it probably involved some sort of minor accident on Clint’s part. Really, he should have only been gone ten minutes or so, just long enough to start the first load of laundry. At 15 Bucky started to get worried, and at 20 he’d come down to check it out, make sure everything was ok. 

It looked like everything was ok. Clint was pulling out some truly terrible dance moves while holding his phone like a microphone and belting out something about music that ‘just ain’t got that same soul’ with a smile on his face and no cares in the world. Bucky just leaned against the door jam, waiting for Clint to either notice him or decide to come upstairs, genuinely enjoying watching Clint move so freely and so carelessly. 

Before long Clint was glaring accusingly at an ironing board and singing about a Barracuda, and that was followed up with a bunch of high kicks and a high and a shreeky sort of voice, singing about being back in the saddle again. That bled into something low and mournful, all soft movements while a guitar gently wept, which, Clint’s singing aside, was a beautiful song that Bucky would ask about. Later, though, because that song ended and the next song was one Bucky had never heard before. It slow and sweet, but not really soft. It had a steady bass line but was melodic, and Clint sang it beautifully. Gone were the silly voices he’d affected for the previous songs, this was all Clint, maybe a touch huskier which fit with the sinuous, fluid movement his dancing had taken. 

While he’d never heard the song before, the lyrics weren’t particularly complex, so Bucky joined in at the next chorus, striding right up to his love and leaning in to the phone that was still being used as a mic, and joined in singing about feelin’ like makin’ love. In true Clint form, he only paused for a minute before he tossed the phone on the folding counter and started dancing properly with his boyfriend, grinning wildly. 

“I didn’t know you liked Bad Company,” Clint said when the song ended, reaching for his phone and turning off the music.

“Doll, I am bad company.” He drawled the words out as he cocked his hip and shifted his weight, taking on the universal “bad boy” pose. 

Clint just laughed as he hopped up on the folding counter, kick his feet a little, so they banged on the cabinet door below. “No, the band. Bad Company.” He paused before adding, “The band is called Bad Company. No weird circular conversations about band names. Animaniacs did it better.”

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about, sweet thing, but I don’t mind listenin’.”

“Yeah, nothing, nevermind, weird memory hole. Anyway, what brings you down to the laundry room?”

“You, of course, sweet thing.”

“What? Why?”

“Doll, you’ve been down here almost an hour and a half. You were just going to start a load of laundry. I worried.”

“Oh.” Clint still looked confused, but just then the timer on the dryer dinged, confirming what Bucky had said. All at once he got a little embarrassed. “Yeah, I had a, uh, little accident.” In an act of pure deflection, he tacked on, “good to know you care so much about you waited almost an hour to check on me when I should have been gone for five minutes.”

“Sweet thing,” Bucky said, hooking a finger in the waistband of Clint’s briefs and snapping them lightly, “I’ve been standin’ in that doorway watchin’ you dance around lookin’ all kinds of amazin’ for the last half hour. It was a great show, I didn’t want to see it end, I just couldn’t let you dance around the way you were, to a song like that,” he paused to drag his tongue along his bottom lip and tug a little at the briefs again, “wearin’  _ these _ without steppin’ in t’ get my hands all over ya. Whatta ya say we rotate laundry and head upstairs and make good on that song, hey?”

“Oh, yeah, um. About that. See. I am still down here because I, uh. Fuck.”

Bucky was instantly standing straighter, concern starting to creep in. “What’s wrong, Clint?”

“I spilled laundry soap on my clothes, so I threw them in the washing machine. I didn’t think about it, see, because I’d already started the machine, so everything was already wet. That’s why I stayed here, so I didn’t walk through the building in my special occasion underpants for everyone to see.”

“Clint.” Buck closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “First, we will put a pin in the special occasion underpants, and you can explain that to me later. That’s- yeah, you know what, that’s a later thing. The right now thing, is that you stayed here, in the communal laundry room where anyone could walk in, for an hour so that no one would see you, rather than a two minute elevator ride back to the apartment? And, really, you didn’t just text me that you needed me to bring you something to wear so you didn’t have to stay down here for an hour and a half?”

“I, uh, didn’t think of that.”

“I love you, Clint,” Bucky said simply, stepping in between Clint’s knees and wrapping his arms around the human disaster he shared his life with. “Don’t ever change.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> And many many many thanks to the Bad Decision Buddies.
> 
> Find me on tumblr


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